


While my guitar gently weeps

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Body Image, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, Geralt Typical Angst, It's complicated alright, M/M, Modern Era, Modern Geralt, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, popstar Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, reverse au, transdimenional travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Geralt has been at the top of the charts for years now. Still relatively young and with a solid fanbase he's a long way ahead of him as the popstar idol called Wolf. Yet, he's unhappy with his life; the fame, the industry, it's not for him. Somehow, he finds himself on the Continent after a dreadfully taxing day at work, where he meets the most peculiar swordsman - a Witcher by the name of Jaskier.Or: Geralt is a popstar that accidentally crosses universes and meets the love of his life Jaskier, who's a witcher
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 26
Kudos: 69





	1. Being famous and its toll on a person

**Author's Note:**

> _Valdooooooo!_

Headlights dance and go through various shades of purple and turquoise up above as Geralt finishes the second encore of tonight’s concert. Thank fuck he won’t have to sing this nonsense for any longer. Or dance around like a particularly shiny magpie. It’s ridiculous really. 

The audience cheers and claps and dances and that’s the only thing comforting the singer right now. He winks and  blows kisses to his fans, comprised mostly of young women, tilts his head ever so slightly and smirks as instructed by his manager and watches as the stadium erupts in what can only be described  as a collective high-pitched squeal from a thousand people.

It’s over. 

Finally, it’s over. 

The moment he disappears backstage he drops the facade of the hunky pop singer that the industry forces upon him, relaxes his muscles and sighs deeply. 

“Hey hot-stuff,” his manager wraps an arm around him and pats him on the shoulder. Geralt flinches instinctively but manages to hide it by arching his back, stretching, the bones of his spine clicking loudly. 

“Valdo,” he huffs out as he catches the overly-excited glimmer in the blond’s eyes. ”You got news,” he remarks. 

“Ah, straight to business as always. Amazing, Geralt,” the man smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does. “I got the lyrics for your new single! Exciting, isn’t it?” 

“Exciting. Yes.”

“Oh, where’s your professional enthusiasm Geralt?”

“Dead in a ditch,” he responds dryly, “Let me guess; the song’s about women’s rear ends again.”

“That’s a fancy way to say ass, for sure,” Valdo chuckles, “Yes, it’s about a sexy lady the singer thirsts for,” he hands him a printed out lyric sheet.

_ I saw you down the street, girl _

_ You wore a mini-skirt _

_ Your bootie looked dive, girl _

_ Your bootie _

_ Your bootie _

_ Hot as fuck ass _

“Sooo, what do you think, Geralt?”

“Disgusting,” he deadpans. “Take that shit back, Valdo. I won’t sing it.”

“But it’s what the people want, Geralt! It will be number one on the charts for months! Months, Geralt!” 

He knows that’s how the industry works. He knows it’s unlikely he’ll ever be able to sing quality content; his own songbook, his own music, not worth a damn to those greedy bastards. He hates it. 

He dismisses his manager with a movement of his hand and enters his changing room backstage. Time to get out of this holographic shit crop-top, meant to accentuate those sculpted abs made by blood sweat and tears (it’s mainly dehydration and a mix of copious amounts of protein powder with countless hours of daily exercise). 

_ And time to get some fucking water in his system; his throat is as dry as the desert. _

“Should I let some lucky gals inside for you?” his manager yells behind him. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Geralt hisses. It’s bad enough that he’s not able to pursue a healthy relationship like a damn person; he sure as hell won’t try something with a crazed fan. 

He locks the door behind him and collapses onto the nearest couch, his energy completely drained after the brief encounter with Valdo fucking Marx. 

He sighs again and runs his fingers through the long white strands of hair. They’re gonna need bleaching again, soon. 

Right. Time to change and hopefully rest a bit, before he’s forcefully dragged to whatever celebrity party Valdo arranged for him to attend tonight. ‘You have to appear social, Geralt,’ he can hear the high pitched whiny voice of his manager in his head, ‘you need to have juicy news for the paparazzi, Geralt.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses between clenched teeth. Not all celebrities are horrible --he knows that-- but those he’s supposed to associate with? Bunch of rich shallow bastards, their only concern is how to plate any more of their teeth with fucking diamonds or some shit. 

How fucking pointless. 

He removes his golden contacts, methodically, happy to see his brown eyes once more.  _ Yet another thing they stripped him of.  _ Next is this ridiculous disco-ball of an outfit that cost him a small fortune. He brushes his digits on the clothes rack slowly, trying to find one thing that doesn’t look like it came straight out of doucheville. He finally settles on a simple black button-up no collared shirt and a pair of black jeans studded on the side with little spikes. He’d prefer a sweatshirt and sweatpants, to be honest, but he doesn’t have much of a choice at the moment. 

Geralt reaches for his iPad as he sprawls himself on the couch again.  _ Bunch of updates... Ten notifications from his darling mother who’s completely responsible for this entire charade… A news article with his face on it. _

He knows better than to tap on the article but curiosity tugs at him and he relents. 

An unflattering image of him in sweatpants, eating a slice of pizza greets him. ‘Aiming for dad bod?’ is the title followed by the equally appalling ‘Are we going to mourn Wolf’s godly six-pack?’ 

He rolls his eyes and presses his lips into a thin line. 

Bunch of bastards, the press. He’s allowed to enjoy some things in life for fuck’s sake! He recognises when the picture was taken; not even a week ago, in front of the local pizza place near his loft. It was the first time in eight months he managed to escape his tight schedule briefly and reward himself with a single pepperoni-barbeque piece of pizza he hadn’t tasted in twice as long. 

This obsession other people seem to have with his body makes his stomach churn and bile rise to his mouth. The sad thing is that not many know how terrible it is for your body to have visible abs at this weight.  _ He actually prefers himself without visible abs but he dare not utter this aloud.  _ The industry is a cold and cruel place, where dreams come to die. 

He takes a sip from his water bottle and reaches for his acoustic guitar he takes with him to every concert despite not being allowed to play it in front of people. He strums the chords in the comforting sound of the Beatles’ ‘while my guitar gently weeps’ and he lets the music take him, swallow every nasty thought until he’s ready to face reality again. 

He loves the classics so much, and once he thought he might have the chance to leave his mark in music history as they did, all those great people before him…  _ Not like this. Not as a farce singing about bottoms he doesn’t even find attractive.  _

He shoves the thought away, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

He flutters his eyelids open slowly when he feels the little hair on the nape of his neck rising. Something’s wrong, his instincts yell at him. 

He looks at his hands and he has to do a double-take because-- because, is he bloody fading out of existence? His hands flicker and he can see through them. He glances at the big mirror, it’s surely all-- FUCK. He’s-- he’s disappearing! 

He clutches his guitar tightly in his embrace, his stomach doing somersaults as he watches his reflection disappear and reappear like strobe lights. 

The world warps and twists around him, million colours mingling and tangling with one another. 

It’s dizzying. 

It’s too much. 

It feels like aeons pass before the scenery settles and he retches the pitiful contents of his stomach onto the soft grass ground. 

Grass?

He slowly lifts his head, the summer sun caressing his skin gently. He’s positive it was autumn not a minute ago. And he sure as hell was in a city not-- he looks around-- a medieval village built in a cliff?

Did he fall asleep on the couch? Is he dreaming? Could be. It’s the rational answer to what’s happening. Yet his mind screams to him that it’s too real to be a dream. He disregards it. 

No matter. Dream or not (It’s a dream Geralt. You’ve not gone mad, Geralt) he still has his guitar with him so at least there’s that. He feels his pocket; and his phone’s there too,  _ good _ .

He decides on a whim to pass the narrow suspended bridge-- even though heights are not his forte-- and enter the first building he comes across. 

And so he does. 

He enters, opening the door with caution, the thick smell of alcohol and the salty tang of sweat permeating his nose. A pub. That’s -- that’s not bad. Geralt beelines for the bar and meets the eyes of a burly middle-aged man. 

“Bard,” the man greets with a nod. Odd choice of greeting, Geralt thinks but decides to humour the obviously not real man his mind concocted in his sleep. “Want to perform for a mug of ale and a warm piece of berry tart?” the man offers and Geralt’s mouth waters at the thought of the sweet dessert. He hasn’t had anything like this in two years. He nods furiously. 

This dream is already amazing, and nothing like his usual nightmares of Valdo chasing him with briefcases upon briefcases of contracts and awful schedules. 

“Sounds fantastic,” he manages to rasp and positions himself in the middle of the tavern. 

He strums his guitar to catch the attention of the crowd and introduces himself as ‘Geralt’. No silly monikers needed in his dream. He starts playing a little bit of the Beatles’ repertoire, moves to Simon & Garfunkel and spices the whole thing up with a couple of his original compositions; a song about the love of nature and one speaking of the dreary change from adolescence to adulthood. 

The crowd is eerily silent, watching his performance with acute devotion and the barest hint of confusion in their brows. 

His throat starts to tire after five songs and he figure’s that’s his cue to take a break and try this berry tart that’s smelling so fucking divine. 

“Well done, lad,” the barkeep pats him on the arm and brings out a clay mug filled to the brim with a frothy beverage Geralt assumes it’s the ale, and a big wooden plate with not one but two big pieces of the promised upon dessert. 

He takes a big spoonful of the food, the berries sweet and just barely sour, melting on his tongue. It’s even better than he imagined it to be. It makes tears pool in his eyes. 

Fuck, it’s so good. 

He takes a swig of his ale when he’s done eating the tart, eyes drifting to the patrons, taking in their unconventional ren-fair attire. 

And then he spots him. A hooded man, clad in black armour, sitting on the furthest darkest corner of the pub, nursing an ale. Two big swords are neatly deposited on the seat next to him. 

Geralt takes his lukewarm ale with him and strides towards the table, eyes full of childish curiosity; he’s always liked tales of knights and heroics, ever since he was a tiny child and his father would take him to ren-fair with him. 

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks the mystery man. 


	2. The man called Buttercup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt meets a handsome stranger and has an adventure

The warrior lifts his gaze to meet his, brilliant slit pupiled gold, ringed with the most vibrant blue, eyes, meets his chocolate brown. Fuck, his eyes are breath-taking. He’s never seen contacts as good as these. They look so real. 

The man smiles a lopsided smile and takes off his hood, revealing the snowiest white hair of the like he’s only met in actual snow. Is his mind playing tricks on him, showing him a version of himself, of the Wolf? But no, it can’t be. This man looks nothing like Geralt; the shape of his jaw, his eyes, his nose, his rosy pink lips, are all completely different. Geralt’s gaze traces the thin scar that spans across the man’s face, an imperfection unforgivable in the industry and yet so entirely captivating. It makes the man look dangerous -- sexy even. 

“Everything alright, bard? Please, have a seat,” the man’s clear voice makes Geralt realize he’s been staring for much longer than he thought. Probably missed the man’s initial answer. 

“Right, yeah, right,” Geralt almost stumbles on his words and sits across the warrior. 

“Lovely songs, those you played. Never heard them before.”

“Ah, you don’t know the Beatles?” 

“I know what beetles are,” the man huffs a laugh, “I didn't know insects wrote music. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m joking. I assume it’s the name of a minstrel troupe?”

Geralt hums. That’s one way to put it. 

“I’m surprised you know,” the man says smiling into his mug of ale before taking a sip out of it. Geralt arches a brow. “You don’t reek of fear like the others.”

“What, I should be afraid? Why?”

The man shrugs slightly, “Oh, I don’t know, didn’t your folks warn you about the big bad witchers, slayers of monsters, –despite being monsters themselves– and thieves of children, taking them to be mutated like they are?”

“Witchers…” Geralt stares blankly at the warrior. Is that what he is? A witcher? “Sword and sorcery men? Combining magic and strength to take down their foes?” the words escape his lips before he can stop himself. Well, no point feeling embarrassed for his nerdy interests. After all, this is just a dream. 

“Melitele’s tits!” the swordsman exclaims, “While you got the gist of it, I can see in your eyes you’ve never heard of a witcher before!” Geralt shakes his head and half-shrugs. “Well, regardless, I believe my introduction would have scared you away if you were capable of being scared, but I see this is not the case here,” he sighs in relief, “Oh, but where are my manners? I’m Jaskier of Lettenhove, Witcher in profession, music appreciator at heart,” he extends a rough callused hand which Geralt shakes. 

“Geralt O’Rivia, bard I suppose.” 

“Oh, you’re Rivian? Colour me surprised, I’ve got a brother in arms that comes from Rivia.”

“Afraid I lost you. Never heard of a Rivia. I’m from London. Well, Dublin actually, but my mother is strangely infatuated with the city of Thames.”

Jaskier tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion, “You’re not from the Continent, are you, Geralt O’Rivia?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

* * *

They spend a good while engaging in pleasant conversation, Jaskier waxing poetic about the seemingly most mundane things and asking questions about songs and the strange lute-like instrument Geralt carries. Geralt does his best to answer the handsome witcher’s  _ unique  _ queries and listens intently, as the man goes on about tales of lovely meadows and the unparalleled beauty of a town called Oxenfurt, in the autumn rain. 

It’s all so relaxing, his mind flying away from the accumulated stress of the past year that he finds himself wishing to never stop dreaming about this lovely dangerous man, staying in this small picturesque pub forever. 

But of course, all nice dreams must come to a halt, twist and change, no matter how much he wills to control them. 

The change comes with a new figure approaching their corner table. A heavy-looking burlap pouch clangs, metal against metal, or rather coin against coin. A hand deposits it in front of Jaskier, who smiles reserved, no teeth showing, unlike the pretty fanged smiles he gave Geralt not a minute before. 

“Sir Witcher,” a man’s voice says, behind Geralt’s shoulder, “I’ve got your payment for the devil. 200 coins as promised. Please get rid of the grain stealing fiend, we beg of you!”

“Alright,” Jaskier responds, rising from the table and gathering what little he carried with him. Geralt mirrors him, fastening his guitar strap on his torso. 

“Mind if I come with?” Geralt asks, secretly excited to see a mythical being from up close --even if this is all a dream. Not an opportunity a sane person would pass. 

Jaskier locks eyes with him, brow furrowed in confusion, “You’re really fearless, aren’t you bard?” 

“Got nothing to lose,” Geralt responds simply, “and besides, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Jaskier snorts a laugh, “Fair enough. You’re in luck Geralt, this shouldn’t be a dangerous contract; perhaps a bandit or a Sylvan stealing from the villagers.”

“So I can come with you?” 

“Yeah,” Jaskier shrugs slightly, “Just keep in mind to stay hidden in a safe distance when we do meet the culprit.” 

* * *

Geralt does as he’s told and keeps his distance from the handsome dangerous witcher, walking behind him for what seems to be miles of rocky terrain. His feet ache and he’s beginning to think that maybe - just maybe- this whole fantasyland thing is not a dream. That he somehow jumped into another universe. Strange as it may seem to believe, there is something about this whole situation, something oddly real. 

He’s lost in thought when Jaskier stops and turns to look at him, his mouth forming the word ‘stay’. He nods and takes a look at his surroundings; big rocks and low flora, an almost arid mountain kind of scenery. 

And then he sees the creature. 

It resembles a faun or a satyr. It’s tall with a human-goat head, horns growing from its scalp and curving at the sides. It has hooves instead of feet and it snarls at Jaskier, who’s walking towards it with confident strides. 

Jaskier is talking with the creature but from that distance, Geralt can't discern the words. He contemplates moving a smidge forward, just a tiny bit, so he may hear what is being said. From the animated gestures both Jaskier and the creature are doing, it seems important. Oh hell. He’ll try to approach them silently. 

Geralt moves slower than a snail, gaze fixed on the ground, careful not to trip on anything. 

“Geralt, stand back,” Jaskier yells and something connects with Geralt’s forehead and everything becomes dark. 

* * *

Curiosity killed the cat. Isn’t this how the saying goes? 

Geralt groans as his eyes flutter open, and sharp pain, starting from the spot above his right eyebrow, waves through him. He tries to move a hand to the offending spot but he realises he’s unable to; his hands are tied behind his back and- wait. He’s tied to someone back to back. 

“Fuck.”

“It was an ambush,” Jaskiers voice sounds from behind him. Ah, he’s tied to him then. “Elves are hiding in the mountains.”

“Elves? Aren’t they supposed to live in their golden palaces?” 

Jaskier makes a hissing sound.  _ Did he say something wrong?  _

“Golden palaces?” A woman’s voice shrieks, “You took everything from us, humans. Everything! And you dare- You dare!”

The woman moves quickly to face Geralt, her hand clenched in a tight fist. Shaking with anger. 

“Leave off!” Jaskier growls, “He’s just a bard, he doesn’t know how-” 

The air in Geralt’s lungs leaves with force as she kicks him on the stomach, the pain spreading in hot waves throughout his body. Fuck. He hasn’t been beaten up since- And another kick connects with his chest that will surely leave him bruised for weeks. There go all the slivers of hope that this all was just a dream. No dream hurts so fucking much. 

A strangled sound of a guitar breaking echoes throughout the small room and Geralt’s eyes snap to the where it comes from. His heart falls when he sees another elf, he hasn’t previously noticed, smashing the delicate body of his guitar on his knee. 

Not his guitar. 

No-

_ Nononononononono!  _

The woman smirks seeing the expression of pure pain on his face and crouches before him. Fuck, he’s had that guitar since he was a kid. His dad gave it to him for fuck’s sake! Before everything went tits up and- 

“Fuck you!” Geralt yells through tears, and with whatever momentum he can muster headbutts the elf. The woman staggers backwards, falling on her back and wheezes heavily before it evolves in a violent coughing fit. 

A gasp escapes Jaskier’s throat, “She’s-”

“She’s sick,” Geralt realizes and immediately feels terrible. No headbutt, however strong could elicit this reaction--and this one was mediocre if not outright weak. Geralt barely felt any pain, aside from his head wound reopening and now generously bleeding all over his eye. “I-”

“The elves,” Jaskier starts saying but shuts his mouth as the flimsy door to the room opens, and the faun together with another elf pass through.

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves” the faun-goatman informs them.

For a king, he looks no better than the still wheezing woman, whose guitar-breaking companion is now tending to. Sickly and pale. Obviously malnourished. His tunic looks like it has seen better days; like it has been worn for many many years. 

The elves, they are suffering. Hunted, hiding, Geralt reckons. Nothing like the air of grandeur the elves of his favourite fantasy books give off. No spotless skin, and shining hair. No gilded golden palaces.

“My king,” Jaskier says, “Please let the bard go, he’s not even from around here. He knows nothing of the situation in the Continent. I promise you, he won’t give away your hideout. I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

The elf king, Filavandrel, tilts his head slightly, eyes calculating, “He’s from beyond the sea?”

“Possibly,” Jaskier responds. 

“From another world,” Geralt adds, feeling that being truthful may be the thing that spares his life, “Arrived earlier today. By the village on the cliff.” 

“And why should we believe you and the witcher?”

“He might be telling the truth,” the goatman says, holding a square-ish thing on his hand and raising it for the king to see. 

It’s Geralt’s phone. Fuck. They’d better not damage it if he, somehow, wants to prove his  _ otherworldliness _ . 

“What is this, Torque?” the king takes it to his hands to examine it, his eyes going wide when the screen lights up. Filavandrel moves before Geralt and holds the phone carefully, “I can’t sense chaos from it,” he states, “what sort of mechanism is this, human?” 

Jaskier is moving uneasily behind him, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of what the king is referring to. 

“It’s a communication device. From my world. It’s not magic, just- hmmm,” he gathers his thoughts, “- advanced technology.”

“Ohhhhh!” Jaskier exclaims, “like a xenovox, my king!”

“I’ve no bloody idea what a xenovox is,” Geralt whispers under his breath, “May I- may I show you how it’s used, your majesty?” The king arches his brows, clearly interested in this.

* * *

The elves release them, as soon as Geralt goes through all of his apps at least twice, his whole camera roll -- regrettably, as it contains multiple extravagant and utterly ridiculous show outfits-- and tries to call his friend Priscilla even though there’s no transdimensional signal available, obviously. 

Filavandrel apologises for Geralt’s poor mangled guitar, giving him a beautiful intricate seven-course lute as repayment. Geralt doesn’t know how to play it but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he accepts, thanking the king. 

He even catches Jaskier giving the elves his pouch of payment for the thief contract. “Just take it,” he says in a hushed voice, “I’ll weave a nice believable lie to say to the good folk of Posada, tell them the threat’s been dealt with. In the meantime, leave this blasted arid land and go somewhere else. Survive, grow stronger. Alright?” 

“I… may be able to help,” Geralt blurts out, heart beating erratically when all eyes lay upon him, “with a song,” he elaborates. 

“That’s a fantastic idea, Geralt!” Jaskier claps his hands in excitement. 

* * *

It’s been a long time since Geralt felt so inspired. It’s a silly tune, lighthearted and fun and very much the opposite of what he usually composes. But it’ll work well in this situation, he’s sure. Now, he only has to find some lyrics that tell the story they want to sell and fit the melody. 

He’s humming the tune under his breath, hands gently strumming the lute, trying to get the feel of it. Given time he’ll learn how to play it, he’s certain. 

“That’s a nice song,” Jaskier hums, walking beside him, “When a humble bard~ Graced a ride along… ” he sings on the melody, with a clear tenor voice that surprises Geralt. Can that man become even more amazing in his eyes?

“You’re good.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier smiles widely, “I like to think that in another life I could have become a bard. A master of all instruments, world-renowned and incredibly sought after,” he sighs. 

“What’s stopping you?”

Jaskier’s face drops, digits brushing over his facial scar. 

Shit, Geralt said something wrong again, didn’t he? 

Jaskier smiles at him again, but this time it’s strained; it doesn’t reach his eyes. “People don’t like their witchers singing. Actually, scratch that. They don’t like their witchers, period.” 

“I- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You don’t really know how our world operates, Geralt. And ignorance, in this case, is hardly something unforgivable. I’m used to living like this; from town to town, contract to contract. It’s not the best life --I’ll admit that-- more often lonely than not, but it’s my life. And I’m truly fine with it.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Jaskier tilts his head in question, “What does that word mean? In all my travels I’ve never encountered it before.” 

“Ah… Eh… Hmmm…” the question catches Geralt off guard, “It means alright, or… fine, I guess.” 

“Okay!” Jaskier repeats, a wide smile painted on his face and the conversation they had moments ago forgotten, “Okay! I like the sound of it!” __

* * *

For two days Geralt travels with the witcher, unsure how to proceed with his life in this new foreign world. Leaving the monster hunter's side and travelling by himself will end with him buried six feet under real quick- or more accurately, it will end with Geralt monster fodder or bandit pray or sorcerer lab-rat, or something. And he’s not particularly fond of either of these options. So at Jaskier’s side, he will remain until his calling he’ll find one day. 

__

_ And it’s not like it’s a chore really. Jaskier is an incredibly interesting - albeit chaotic - individual. _

Geralt is pretty sure the man has some sort of ADHD given how he skips from subject to subject and how fidgety and restless he gets. Just until a few minutes ago, Jaskier was scratching his nails on the rough surface of his leather armour and has been doing so, absentmindedly, for at least two hours. Then again, he doesn’t know enough about how witchers are supposed to be, so really, this whole observation is kinda pointless.

Night is approaching swiftly, the sun dipping behind the tall barren mountains painting the sky in beautiful pinks and purples. Geralt’s phone battery has long since died (he really should have put the damn thing on flight mode the moment he landed in this strange place) and shame as it may be, he can’t immortalise the picture of the swordsman walking in the pretty colours of the sunset. 

At least, he managed to snap some photos in Dol Blathanna with the elves and a couple of Jaskier looking at the camera confused, so when he finds his way back to Earth he’ll have some proof that this whole thing was not some strange fever, and dehydration, induced dream. 

_ Oh, what he’d give to have a solar charger with him. _

“Let’s make camp,” Jaskier offers a bit later, the sun still not fully hidden behind the mountainous landscape. 

“Sure,” Geralt replies, reaching for Jaskier’s extra bedroll (“It’s fine, you can take it Geralt, I don’t need this in the summer”) that is buried in one of Buttercup’s saddlebags. 

Much like the previous two days, Jaskier gathers some dry firewood and props them up neatly into a cone setting them on fire with a weird gesture of his fingers. It’s impossible for Geralt to take his eyes away from this marvel called magic, even though Jaskier assures him time and time again that real magic performed by a trained wielder of chaos is much more impressive than his signs. 

As Geralt sets his bedroll on a relatively straight part of the orange coloured dirt, his head starts spinning, the world swirling and swivelling around him, colours mingling and separating again and again. 

Could it be he’s going ba-

“Geralt!” Jaskier sounds alarmed, but Geralt can’t see him, everything around him melting into one another. Fuck, he’s really regretting his lunch choice now, “You’re disappearing! What’s happening to you?”

“I think I’m going back to my world! It was a pleasure meeting you, Jaskier!” he shouts but he’s unsure if his voice is coming through. Everything spins so damn much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rip Geralt's guitar  
> Geralt still having his phone with him and recording shit just to prove to himself this all wasn't a big fever-dream is a thing now, alright.   
> Let's see now how Geralt will fare back in his world!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is yet another multi-chaptered AU of mine :D  
> It's gonna be around 5 - 6 chapters long and 3 of those have already been written. Updates will happen every two weeks if all goes well and my muse stays with me <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this iteration of Reverse Au and see you soon!


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